


Cesspit

by lexyhamilton (ohheichoumyheichou)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Sickfic, Unconscious Sex, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:20:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11455869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohheichoumyheichou/pseuds/lexyhamilton
Summary: Sona has a typhoid outbreak (I mean, how didn't it, given what we saw in season 3?) and Theodore Bagwell has to go well out of his way to make sure his favorite inmate survives it.





	Cesspit

**Author's Note:**

> Uh... I'm warning you now, this is definitely not consensual sex, and the victim handles it with perhaps unrealistic levels of aplomb the morning after.  
> This is how I see the T-Bag/Michael Scofield dynamic, not rape scenarios in general.
> 
> As an aside, I don't care about James Whistler. I care about Mahone, but he's not in this fic, sorry. Maybe it's an AU where he got his plea deal and got out of Sona lol.

Typhoid was going around Sona. It wasn't a surprise, really, not with that basement full of sewage that never drained out, not with the lack of running water and toilet paper, not with the flies that shuttled back and forth between that sewer, the food served out at noon, and the inmates themselves.

Theodore had managed to stay clear of it—no one among Lechero's close group had been afflicted yet—but it seemed like most of Sona had come down with it by now. The disease was frightening, the number of dead men was mounting, and part of Theodore knew they couldn't hide in Lechero's quarters from it forever. The epidemic wouldn't run its course and end when every day ushered in fresh puddles of vomit and diarrhea that were no longer confined to the sewer but appeared everywhere—the courtyard sand, the walls, the hallways between the cells on the ground floor. They made requests of the guards for sand, for bleach, and for antibiotics. The medicine came in very limited supply, and it was hard to believe penicillin was so hard to get, even in Panama. No, it was pretty clear that the guards were more than happy to have the inmates reduced by nonviolent death this way, and weren't particularly interested in saving lives. Theodore asked to be put in charge of the medicine, just as he had of all the other drugs. Lechero wouldn't have it, though. He knew the value of antibiotics in the midst of a plague like this, and kept them locked in his safe, and as many times as Theodore had tried to espy the combination to that lock, he couldn't manage it.

"Teodoro!"

Theodore suppressed a wince at the sound. He looked over at Lechero, Carmelita in his lap.

"You should be careful walking around here, girl. We have a full blown epidemic on our hands. Let me take your shoes and bleach them." Theodore leaned down, taking off one shoe at a time, dipping the outsides in the bucket of watered down bleach that was in the middle of the room.

"You are so helpful, Teodoro. Now go and appease the people. Throw some bleach on those sewer steps," Lechero said, pointing to the buckets lined up against the wall.

"You know how dangerous that task is, _Patron_?" Theodore asked in exasperation.

"Don't fret, Teodoro. You'll be first in line for the penicillin if you get ill," Lechero said amiably, running a hand through Carmelita's hair before kissing her.

"It won't help to wash the steps when the sewer itself is a cesspit," Theodore grumbled under his breath. Why was he the one doing this job when he only had one good hand he could use to carry a bucket? He met Sammy on the stairs, and part of him was sorely tempted to trip and spill the caustic liquid all over his enemy, but he opted to walk past.

"Yeah, run along Stumpy. Help out our miserable people."

Theodore inhaled deeply then held his breath as he got out into the courtyard. Sona had always reeked, but now it was downright unbearable. Two more corpses had been dragged out into the courtyard and left there to dry in the sun. The flies were all over them and Theodore tried to give a wide berth. Just as he made his way across he spied a familiar, favorite figure. Michael was sitting on the stone railing, still wearing his ridiculously warm hoodie, hunched over and looking pale.

"How goes it, Pretty," Theodore asked, though he could already see that Michael Scofield was not invincible, and had succumbed to the disease hovering everywhere around them. "You come down with it?"

"Probably," Michael snapped, and wrapped his arms around his stomach more tightly.

Theodore chewed his lip. "You know, don't spread this around, but we got antibiotics up in Lechero's quarters. I could put in a good word for you, get you on that VIP list to get some."

"Thanks, but I think I'll deal with it myself," Michael said. "I want you to get some for James Whistler."

"Now why would I want to do that? Lechero hates his guts, and I.. well I got no love for him in particular."

"You'd want to because I'm asking you to," Michael said, staring back firmly, even though his face was pale and contorted with pain.

"Pretty, you'd need to do something really special for me to waste antibiotics on that Whistler fellow."

Michael turned away and resumed his position on the stone. Theodore sighed.

"Suit yourself. Just remember to pay a visit if you feel like it's getting worse. It'd be a shame to die down here like a dog when there's penicillin waiting for you up on the second floor."

Michael Scofield was one of the most stubborn people Theodore had ever met, no doubt about it. He made a mental note to check up on him and make sure he didn't end up being dragged out into the courtyard among the corpses. Theodore pulled a bandana over his nose as he approached the sewer. Even when he held his breath, his eyes stung with how awful the air was. He tilted the bucket and let the bleach run down the steps, slowly trickling down until it reached the kneedeep water of the sewer where it did little good.

"Compliments of Lechero," he muttered as he passed people who were too sick to be angry, who merely staring after him on his way back to the slightly more civilized conditions upstairs.  

 

 

***

Theodore heard a knock on the door to Lechero's headquarters and opened it slightly, ever dreading to see a throng of inmates who were finally fed up with the deadly conditions they were living in. Instead all he saw was one Michael Scofield, barely able to stand upright.

"You need to give me antibiotics for Whistler. He's dying." Michael lurched forward, and Theodore caught him up. Michael smelled like vomit and death, but Theodore wasn't about to not enjoy the taller man leaning on him for support.

"Pretty, you look at death's door yourself, come in," he whispered hastily, pulling Michael inside and shutting the door.

"Teodoro, did you just let a sick man in here?" Lechero looked up from the cardgame he was playing with several other men.

" _Patron_ , we need him alive. Who's going to fix your water again if it stops running?" Theodore said, trying not to stumble as he pulled Michael towards a room off to the side. "I'm going to treat him in this room."

"You're not letting this guy stay here." Sammy stood up and opened the door again, motioning them out with mock courtesy.

" _Patron_..." Theodore appealed. Michael looked like he was going to pass out any moment now. His face was now less pale than just plain grey. His cheeks looked hollowed out, his eyes sunken in. He was no longer wearing his hoodie, and the grey shirt he was wearing was soaked in sweat and grime.

"Go treat him downstairs, Teodoro." Lechero said, shrugging, but he did make his way over to the safe and unlocked it to pull out one bottle of tablets. "There," he said, throwing it at Theodore who didn't manage to catch it, having to use his one hand to support Michael's chest and avoid having him pitch forward. They laughed as Theodore grunted with the effort to pick up the bottle up off the floor, with Michael as little better than dead weight leaning against him.

They made their way down the stairs slowly, Michael's legs trembling violently.

"You sure took your sweet time to ask for help," Theodore grumbled, sweating with the effort of half-carrying this man down the stairs, and unable to even extract a perverse pleasure of getting to touch Michael Scofield more than he ever had before.

"I didn't.. ask... for myself..." Michael slurred haltingly.

"Then you're a damn fool, Pretty, what can I say." Theodore sneered in contempt. He briefly held up his palm to Michael's forehead and felt the heat radiating out from the fever. Part of him liked seeing Michael like this... weak, vulnerable, maybe even pliant in this state, making a few fantasies run through Theodore's mind unprompted. Yet another part of him despised seeing this—despised the stupidity of refusing to do practical things to survive. Michael needed him, oh he needed his help right now so badly, and he didn't even seem to acknowledge this fact.

As soon as Theodore shuffled them into Michael's cell, Michael slumped down on his cot, assuming a fetal position.

"You vomited in your own bed, Pretty," Theodore pointed out with distaste, and began pulling the sheets off the bed, even with Michael still on top of them. He grabbed the water bucket in the corner, relieved to find it empty rather than full of objectionable substances. He filled it up in the courtyard and returned. Michael was clutching his stomach, squirming, and... were those really tears?

Theodore leaned down and took out his bandana, wetting it in the water. "Shh, shh..." he whispered as he pressed the cool cloth against Michael's face. "We're gonna fix this mess you got yourself into."

He took out two tablets from the pill bottle he had stuffed into his belt, and fed them to Michael, chasing it with water out of his hand. Michael winced and coughed, sputtering, but he seemed to have swallowed the medicine.

"You'll start feeling better by tomorrow," Theodore said, even as he gently began to pull off Michael's shirt, which was flecked with old vomit. "We need to wash your clothes, Pretty. They reek."

Theodore smiled as he labored, because unlike most of the dirty work he'd had to do to survive in Sona, this one came with unique perks. Michael's body was laid out for him, and as he pulled the shirt up inch by inch, revealing the tattooed skin underneath, his heart began to race with want. Maybe it was for the best that Sammy had chased him out Lechero's quarters. He could fuck Michael here undisturbed, even if the latter started to complain and make noise. He wasn't complaining yet. Burning up with fever, Michael Scofield seemed barely aware of what was happening.

"What're you doing..." he finally mumbled when Theodore pulled off his pants.

"You're dirty as all hell, Pretty." Theodore held up his underwear, stained with the telltale signs of bowel incontinence that came as part and parcel of typhoid. "I'm getting you cleaned up."

Michael didn't resist. The antibiotics hadn't started working yet and he was burning up. Theodore even wished he was more present in the moment, but then decided this was fine. He used his bandanna, moistened in the bucket of water to wipe down Michael's body.

Michael was lying before him in the nude. Theodore kept wiping down, past where the tattoo ended, turning him over and wiping that pale ass. He hesitated for a moment, looking over at Michael, then reached in in between to clean thoroughly.

"Whistler..." Michael mumbled, and Theodore retracted his hand, still wary of Scofield being brought back from his delirium and mounting a fight.

"What _about_ Whistler..." Theodore asked, smirking, reaching back in with the moist cloth. He found himself wishing for his left hand suddenly. It didn't happen as often anymore, not even every day, but now as he hovered over Michael's prone body he wished for two hands, two thumbs to pull apart those fleshy but firm asscheeks and admire what was inside.

It worked well enough with one hand, Theodore's heart beating just a bit faster peeking at what he had uncovered. He had seen Michael naked before, in Fox River, but he had never had the fortune to see these intimate parts of him. That tiny pucker looked exactly as he'd seen in his mind's eye, tight, pristine, severe-- perhaps a bit more red than he'd imagined, but for all Theodore knew that was caused by the illness.

Michael made no protest, too delirious to notice how exactly he was being pawed at—until, that is, Theodore took a spit-slicked hand and pressed it against his entrance.

"What are you doing…" Michael objected, but his voice sounded drowsy and distant—the fever still working its heinous magic on his body.

"Shh… you just lie back and rest," Theodore cooed, even as he began pushing his finger inside. "I'll take care of everything."

Michael let out an unhappy groan and slowly began bending his knees, legs pushing against the bed, trying to move his body forward and away from the intrusion.

Theodore's hand moved right along with him, now knuckle-deep inside. He finally lost patience with Michael's slow but continuous crawl forward, and hooked Michael's thigh with the crook of his elbow, forcing it to straighten out again. Once again, Theodore cursed his nonfunctional stump. He had always loved pulling back people trying to escape his ministrations, but it was such a complicated maneuver now.

"Don't touch me," Michael said, sounding slightly more lucid, a definite note of fear creeping into his tone.

"I'll stop touching you with my fingers soon enough." Theodore spit again on his fingers and thrust two of them inside Michael.

Michael did not make a sound except an angry sigh. Theodore admired the way the muscles of Michael's ass flexed on and off with what must have been discomfort and efforts to push his hand back out. His entire body went into a tremble and Theodore momentarily wondered if it was from the pain or fever chills.

"If you weren't so sick, Pretty, I'd be eating this ass out like it was my last meal."

"This isn't going to do you any good, T-Bag," Michael muttered, now trying to twist and turn over onto his back, but Theodore suppressed the motion easily. This was it. He had been hard for a while now. Beautiful, vulnerable people always got him riled up. He pressed their bodies together, and pushed his way in. Michael exhaled, his body jerking away to no avail.

"Sorry if it hurts. Your inside's all raw, Pretty. The antibiotics will take care of it. I'll take care of it. You don't hardly care about your own body, take it for granted like young people do." Theodore moved back and forth.

Michael let out what sounded like a sob.

"Don't cry, this won't hurt you anymore than you've already hurt yourself."

It was beautiful. It was all Theodore could have wanted. Lying on top of this beautiful body, a body that wasn't fighting back violently, but was giving some pushback, some resistance. This was everything Theodore wanted since he first saw Scofield on the bleachers. Pliant, so pliant. Theodore knew he would never be so pliant and warm ever again. He'd either fail to fight off the illness and die and be cold, or get better and never let Theodore do this to him again. Theodore was enjoying it while it lasted.

"I feel sick," Michael sniffled.

"You _are_ sick, Pretty." Theodore said through gritted teeth, getting close to the brink as he kept pushing back and forth. He had little warning before Michael pushed up and lurched forward, Theodore slipping out of him. He didn't go far, only managing to get his face over the edge of the cot before vomiting. Theodore watched for only a moment before pressing inside again, before Michael was even finished heaving, his eyes rolling back with pleasure as he felt Michael's body tense impossibly tightly with every vomiting convulsion.

"Don't you fret-- we'll clean you up again," Theodore assured him, petting his back, though he doubted Michael was listening.

He was true to his word. After his climax he lay on Michael's back, breathing heavily for a while, licking and kissing Michael on the back of his neck and shoulderblades, which he was fairly certain wasn't going to get him sick. Then he stood up and cleaned up the vomit with a dirty rag he found on the floor. He helped Michael stagger into the courtyard to take a piss, and took great relish in cleaning him up again, this time seeing his own fluids slowly oozing out of Michael's body. He fed Michael antibiotics again, figuring he might have vomited them up before they had a chance to absorb. Michael fell asleep very abruptly, even as Theodore was saying something to him. Theodore considered getting inside him again while he was dead to the world, but found even he had his limits. It was getting dark outside. Hardly anyone had walked by in all that time, many people apparently suffering in their own cells and too sick to wander about as they usually did. Theodore took Michael's clothes and washed them in the trough in the courtyard, using the abrasive lye soap that always made the skin on his hand peel. There was a rope in Michael's cell and Theodore hung his clothes up to dry so that they would be ready to wear by morning. Not that he didn't enjoy the sight of Michael's nude body lying prone on the bed. Theodore tried to settle in next to him, but there wasn't enough room to sleep comfortably. He considered returning to Lechero's quarters upstairs but looking back at Scofield, looking over his prone frame, his pale naked ass somehow invitingly visible in the moonlight from the cell's window, he decided to stay.

"Gorgeous," he said under his breath. He nipped one of Michael's asscheeks, knowing he was putting himself at risk for typhoid but hardly caring anymore. Michael made a small sound of displeasure and turned over onto his side, curling up. Theodore climbed up to the top bunk and finally succumbed to his own fatigue. 

***

When Theodore cracked one eye open he could already see morning light streaming in. Michael was up and about, getting dressed in what must have been clothes that were still on the damp side.

"Mornin'," Theodore mumbled, unable to avoid smiling.

Michael threw him a sharp glance.

"You were pretty far gone yesterday, Pretty. Feeling better, I surmise?"

"Guess so," Michael said.

"You do know you need to keep taking them penicillin tablets for another week or so," Theodore said, sitting up and stretching. "Last night was so nice, I have half a mind to ask for encores in return for the medication."

"What are you talking about." Michael said it without any interest or agitation in his voice, and Theodore was suddenly gripped with the need to know that Michael remembered what happened, that he remembered that Theodore had been fucking him raw and that he had been helpless to stop it.

"You know what I'm talking about, Pretty. I'm sure you're still feeling the aftereffects of what we've been doing."

Michael looked at him blankly, and Theodore was starting to feel infuriated by it.

"Don't lie to me. I saw your tight little virgin hole. Don't tell me it's not burning this morning after what we were up to last night."

"Don't recall," Michael said nonchalantly.

Theodore climbed down the bunk. "You just wait. You just wait, if you don't take more of the medicine, and get ill again. Next time I'll make sure you remember."

"I have no plans to be ill again," Michael said, suddenly advancing, crowding Theodore into the wall. "What is it you want me to remember."

"That-- " Theodore's mouth went dry. "That you lay under me, and I fucked you, Pretty. I fucked you and you barely made a sound, and I emptied my load in you and there was nothing you could do but lie there and take it."

"Guess I'll take your word for it," Michael said, and in one smooth motion took the pill bottle out from where it was tucked in Theodore's belt. Theodore remained standing slack-jawed at the wall, even as Michael stepped away and swallowed two tablets.

"You _do_ remember last night," Theodore spluttered in exasperation. "If you know to take two."

"Isn't it usually two?" Michael said in that exasperatingly offhanded way, even as he exited the cell, heading down the hallway.

Theodore huffed angrily, realizing that whether or not Michael remembered their encounter, he had now lost his bargaining chip. He skulked back to Lechero's quarters, glancing into one of the cells to see Michael handing over two tablets to James Whistler who was also lying in a fetal position on his own bed. God only knew why he was so interested in keeping this infamous inmate alive, but knowing Michael, he was probably planning something devious that required this man.

"You're a whore, Scofield," Theodore muttered under his breath. He still couldn't believe how unsatisfied he could feel the very morning after getting to have his way with a conquest he'd pursued this long. He should have learned by now that he'd never get the upperhand on someone like Michael Scofield. The best thing he could do was just enjoy the ride.


End file.
